Tennessee Whiskey
by Lilbit903
Summary: Peter Whitlock comes to the bar trying to forget. Charlotte is determined to help him remember. I suck at summaries. AU AH M for drinking and heavy cursing cause I'm paranoid.


Peter Whitlock sat at a table in the back of the dingy bar nursing a glass of whiskey. He was a frequent patron, spending most nights sipping his whiskey until either the bottle ran out or the bar closed, which ever came first. Then he would leave a crisp hundred dollar bill on the table, pay his tab and leave. Tonight was no different, except for the fact that now hanging out of his mouth was a lit cigarette. His eyes scanned the crowd, before sliding shut as he exhaled a breath of smoke. None of the waitresses bothered him, after months of the same behavior without so much as a glance their way, he understood. No one approached the table, and for that he was thankful. He didn't want to talk about the reasons he ventured into the dark bar night after night. And he damn sure didn't want to take any of them home. He winced as he remembered the last time he'd made that mistake.

Anna or Alice or whatever her name was, had thrown a fit when he told her to leave after they'd finished. Even going so far as to throw one of _his_ plates at him. It wasn't his fault, he had made sure to tell her that it was a night fling before he even brought her home. So he was surprised to wake up with her in his kitchen, making breakfast with a smile wearing one of his shirts like she belonged there. Needless to say, it wasn't a mistake he was willing to repeat any time soon. So he immersed himself in the bottle, before going home to a cold and empty bed.

"You better not die in here, mister. I don't wanna have to fill out the paperwork." a light voice called. His eyes snapped open assesing the woman in front of him. She was a petite lil thing with big blue eyes and cornsilk hair that fell to her waist. He raised his brow, letting his eyes travel her body leisurely. She had breasts that made his mouth water. Her small frame seemed to make them seem even larger, and he found himself admiring the way her plain white t-shirt clung to them. He felt a lazy smile grace his face when she snapped ,"Eyes are up here, _mister_."

He chuckled, "No need to call me mister. Name's Peter, miss."

She let out a huff, before nodding, "Charlotte."

"Well, Miss Charlotte, I promise you I have no intentions of dying in here. So you have no need to worry about filling out any paperwork." He murmured taking in another drag from the cigarette. Closing his eyes he barely missed he words.

"You could've fooled me." Charlotte sighed.

His eyes flew open, and he knew his normally warm brown eyes were probably cold, but he didn't care. "Care to repeat that?" He hissed as smoke left his mouth.

Charlotte stammered, unused to patrons seeming as intense as the man before her. Peter growled, taking one last shot of whiskey and stumping out his cigarette. Standing he glared, and threw down a fifty, seeing as the bottle was only half empty. He brushed past her without another word, and walked straight to the bar to pay his tab.

As he walked out the door he felt her eyes on him and sighed. He knew the only reason he'd reacted so badly, was because of how close she'd come to the truth. He was a coward, and he knew it. He'd prayed for death. Begged for it even, but he was too much of a coward to do it himself. He growled and punched the brick wall beside him, ignoring the sting in his hand, he did it again and again. Until his knuckles were bruised and bleeding and he was panting from exertion. He barely noticed and continued walking home.

Falling into bed that night, he tossed and turned. Barely getting any sleep, plagued by flashes of red and orange. Loud explosions and heat, the sight of his brothers falling in front of him as their bodies flew past him like leaves on a windy day. He woke with a start, gasping and cursing.

Laying back down he sighed as he ran his fingers through his short blonde hair. He knew he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight. Resigning himself to it, he stood and went about his day. He hissed in pain as water hit his knuckles, causing a chuckle past his lips. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up with bruised and scabbed knuckles, albeit back then he hadn't been punching walls. He frowned and sighed knowing he'd never have another night with his boys.

Sliding down the shower wall he cried, something he hadn't even allowed himself to do at their funerals. Five seperate funerals. All filled with their friends and families, mourners from all over. Protestors drowned out by twenty one gun salutes. Jasper. Garret. Emment and Edward. Carlisle. He sobbed. They were his brothers. Nevermind the fact that only Ed and Em were blood related.

And Carlisle, their medic. The one they joked about as being the mother hen. Always kind and patient, offering advice no matter the situation. Carlisle had saved his life, but lost his in the process.

Banging his head against his hands he tried to chase the memories away. He opened his eyes and crawled under the water until it was freezing and he was shivering. He laid there for what felt like hours. He cut the water off with trembling hands and got out, drying himself off quickly.

He dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and his worn out boots. Glancing at the clock he sighed, it was still early, but he needed a drink. Deciding to head to the bar, he grabbed his keys and left. Upon his arrival he sighed in relief that they were open. Slipping through the door he nodded at the bartender and signalled for his usual. He felt his brow wrinkle when the bartender shook his head and said, "Sorry Pete. Boss said no more whiskey."

He stood stunned. No more whiskey? Why? It didn't make sense. Then suddenly he remembered Charlotte and her words about him dying and paperwork. So she was the boss. Well, then he wouldn't drink her damn whiskey.

"Fine. Give me a bottle of brandy and a glass." He huffed.

The bartender laughed, but got the bottle and glass regardless. Peter nodded in appreciation before going back to his table. Slumping into the chair he unscrewed the lid before pouring a shot and downing it in one go. Stupid meddling woman. What did she care if he came in and drank the whiskey? He always paid his tab and left a hefty tip. He didn't bother the other patrons, didn't harrass the waitresses. He just wanted to drink in peace.

Sure he could drink at home, but then he'd be swallowed up by memories of his brothers. He couldn't handle that. So he drank here. At least in the presence of these people he was forced to keep it together. He sighed and dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. Lighting one he leaned back taking a deep inhale. Between the hazy feeling of smoke filling his lungs and the warmth of the brandy in his chest he was feeling slightly more relaxed, after his breakdown this morning. He poured another shot and hummed as he downed it.

Honestly he was pretty sure the fact that the burn didn't even bother him anymore wasn't a good sign. He didn't care though. Not really. Maybe it was a sign that he was getting closer to dying. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth with his eyes closed and was about to inhale when he heard her voice.

"So I see you found a replacement." Charlotte said.

He groaned and opened his eyes to stare at her. He couldn't deny she was pretty, but right now all he wanted was her gone. Her pretty blue eyes were glaring at him waspishly and he couldn't help thinking that he wasn't drunk enough to deal with her.

"Well, after your banning me from whiskey I needed a new liqour." He stated plainly. He didn't understand her problem. Why she felt the need to pester him bugged him. So what if he wanted to sit and drink a bottle of whiskey. He wasn't harming anyone, maybe himself, but what business was it of hers.

"I got tired of ordering cases of whiskey that were all going to you. I've ordered twelve cases and you've drunk nearly every bottle. Figured if I stopped providing you with it, you'd go somewhere else for awhile." She sniffed disdaindly.

He snorted. Unbelievable. This woman was insane. There was no other reason for her to want to turn away perfectly good money.

"Sorry to dissappoint you, sweetheart, but I quite like the atmosphere you've got going on here. Nothing short of closing down will send me to one of those nightclubs."

She glared at him balefully, "I can see that. Well, you can forget about the whiskey. Looks like you're stuck with brandy for now."

Peter sighed, poured another shot and purposefully downed it. Setting the glass down he met her gaze evenly, "You'll soon find I don't care what type of liquor I drink, just as long as I'm drunk by the end." He lit another cigarette, inhaled and sat back. Watching for her next move, he smiled when she merely huffed and walked away. Point one for Peter Whitlock.

The next night found Peter back at his table with another bottle of brandy, and another shot glass. Sitting down he began to light a cigarette when he heard her voice and groaned.

"No smoking in here, Peter. New policy." She chirped merrily.

He let his head hit the table with a dull thud. This woman was out to kill him, nevermind that the liquor and cigarettes were already halfway there.

"And what about your other patrons, _Charlotte_?" He ground out.

"I'm sure they'll be just fine going outside to smoke. As will you. That is if you wish to continue drinking here." She smiled wickedly.

He snarled lightly. That settled it, this woman was the most obtrusive he'd ever had the displeasure to meet. Sure she had an amazing body, but her need to one up him was seriously grinding on his last nerve. Completly skipping the shot glass he unscrewed the bottle before taking a long swig.

"Fine." he murmured before leaning back and taking a deep gulp from the bottle. He could feel her eyes on him, but ignored her. She'd already made her point. She was in control here, not him. And he was loathe to admit it turned him on.

He waited a few days before returning to the bar. Settling for working himself into exhaustion to help combat the nightmares. It helped only marginally, thus he found himself back in her bar. Walking through the doors he made a beeline for the bar, only to be handed a bottle of rum and a shot glass. Peter let out a low hiss, seemed Miss Charlotte was intending to test which liquors he would accept. Why couldn't she realize all he wanted was to drink in peace. To forget the demons and memories from his past, even if just for a little while.

He turned towards his usual table only to stop in shock. That was not his table. His table was dark, and wobbly with only one chair. This was ridiculous, and he found himself wondering what exactly he had done to deserve this woman's ire. Instead of his usual table, there was a light oak one covered by a pink lace table cloth. A bouquet of white and pink flowers sat atop it, and two comfortable looking chairs flanked either side. Looking around gaping like a fish for a moment, he spotted Charlotte. She was standing in the door way to what he assumed to be her office, and although he couldn't hear her the shaking of her shoulders told him she was very much laughing.

He frowned and slammed the bottle and glass back down on the bar before storming towards her. He didn't know what her problem was, but he was damn sure about to find out. Coming to a stop barely an inch from her he glared, "What. The. Fuck. Is. Your. Problem?" His voice was barely a whisper but he knew she heard every overly enounciated word.

Visibly she flinched, and he smirked. He shouldn't get this much pleasure from that, but she had pressed his button too far this time. He watchd bemused as she raised a delicate eyebrow and sniffed, "I decided to redecorate _my_ bar. Starting with that drab corner." Suddenly she turned away from him and walked into her office. He hesitated, but followed her shutting the door behind him.

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Why are you doing everythin' you can to get me outta your bar?" He sighed running a hand through his hair. Looking around he noticed her office seemed to show delicate balance of masculinity and feminity. A large dark leather sofa sat pressed against one wall, with plush light blue throw pillows placed on it. A tan afghan was placed on the back of it, and he could imagine her taking naps in here. On one end of the couch was a small end table with a large vase full of wildflowers, surrounded by picture frames. At the other end was a tall black filing cabinet, like the ones he'd seen in most school offices.

She was standing in the middle next to a large white desk that was littered with papers. Small knicknacks were strewn about it and he swallowed a chuckle at all the minuature owls. He glanced down and noticed dark wood floors covered by a large light blue shag rug. At that he laughed. Looking at her he smirked, "Been missin' the seventies, have you?"

His smirk turned into an all out grin when she merely rolled her eyes before sitting down at her desk in a tan swivel chair. "Look Charlotte, I don't know what I did to piss you off but all I wanna do is come here and drink. At that same table I've been at for the past two months." He said.

There was a bout of silence then, "Three."

"Excuse me?" He asked perplexed.

"You've been drinking at that same table for the past three months. In that time you've went through thirty bottles of whiskey, a bottle of brandy and I have no doubt you would've drank that God awful rum tonight, if I hadn't changed your table." She stated.

He stopped short. Thirty? _**Thirty?**_ It couldn't be. Then again over the course of three months it was possible. He honestly hadn't realized he'd been drinking so much. Well, he had. It just didn't register. With his days blurring one into the other it was hard to keep track, and quite honestly he just didn't care.

"I've paid for every bottle. And left a very large tip for whatever waitress was assigned that table. So that shouldn't have been a problem." He griseled back, not liking the fact that she was right.

"Damnit Peter! Of course it's a problem. You think I don't remember you? That I wouldn't recognize you? Your goddamn picture is on my fucking wall!" she screamed. He stared at her startled, watching as she caught her breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"No! You don't get to talk right now! I get that you've been through a lot, but so have I. I lost my big brother. He died trying to be a fucking hero. And this is how you repay him? How you repay them? By drinking your life away in my bar? The same one all six of you used to come to." She was crying now and he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. She was right, of course she was right.

"I understand it hurts. Believe me I understand, but drinking yourself to death isn't gonna make it feel better. You still wake up the next morning, and they're still gone. And all you'e left with is a pounding head and an aching heart. It won't bring them back. It won't get you to them any faster. And I know that Jasper would be kicking your ass right now if he could." She whispered.

And suddenly he rembered her. Charlotte Hale was Jasper's baby sister. The last time he'd seen her was six years ago, just before they deployed for the first time. Back then she was a Junior in highschool and he was nineteen. The second oldest in their group. He'd never paid her much attention, but he remebered Jasper going on about her. She'd always write Jasper letters and send the whole squadron batches of her homemade cookies.

He hit his knees. Of course, he knew Jasper had bought a resaraunt zoned building. And Jasper had always favored this bar to any other in the city. Now he guessed he knew why. He had given Charlotte the property, and she turned it into a bar. He felt tears begin to slide down his cheeks, and looked up at her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry. It was my fault. I should've paid better attention, shoulda seen it coming. I coulda done _somethin_. Anything. It shouda been _me_!" He sobbed.

Suddenly she was there. Her arms wrapped around him as they rocked and cried together. That was the start of him getting sober.

It had been hard a first. Weeks of withdrawals. His temper had been short, due to a lack of sleep and the need he'd felt to drink. But Charlotte had stuck by him. She found him somone to talk to, that could help with his bone breaking guilt and the nighmares. And he found himself opening up to her, regaling her with stories of her brother and the others.

It took almost a year, and several slip ups, but he had managed to get back control over his life. He knew he owed it all to her, and couldn't have been more thankful. He laughed silently to himself, over the past three months they had entered into a tenative relationship and he couldn't have been happier.

Glancing at her from her office he smiled. She was better than any glass of whiskey at soothing his pain. She looked up at him from the bar and smiled back waving, before resuming her quanity count for the night.

Yes, she was much better than any type of liqour there was. She didn't just numb the pain; she healed it.


End file.
